


Last Man

by reasonablywittyatbest



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drabble, Gen, High Chaos (Dishonored), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3438506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reasonablywittyatbest/pseuds/reasonablywittyatbest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daud is dead, and Thomas is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Man

Compared to the weight that had settled in his stomach, the leaden thumping of his heart, the weight of the larger man was nothing; Slung over his shoulder like a sack of trash. Thomas could have wept at the indignity of it, if he could have wept at all. Instead all there was, was the thrum of building pressure behind his eyes, a dull throb to contrast the relative numbness he felt everywhere else. He settled the broken body on its former bed; at a loss of what else to do with it. The horror at the thought of dumping the body in the river was strong enough to pierce through the fog that seemed to shroud everything else. 

For a time all he could do was stare at the corpse of his master, former master. Death pale skin, marred by the red gash across his throat, blood staining his red coat deeper crimson. Limbs that had been splayed out at horrible angles pushed to his sides to hide the damage. The caved in chest, the dent in the side of his head. Still damp and grimy from the shallow muck filled water Thomas had found him laying in. 

Daud, his master, was dead. Certainly so. 

He hadn't left a pretty corpse either, he wasn't the type to anyway. Thomas felt his lips twist stiffly, half grimace half smile and swallowed down the hysterical giggle he felt forming at the back of his throat.

It was almost silent, the rest of his brothers were dead, or had fled when Daud had fallen. The creak of the decaying old buildings, and the distant sounds of the city grated in his ears. Thomas could feel the material of his coat on his skin as he shifted his weight, the heat of the leather gloves. His breath, heavier it seemed than normal, perhaps from carrying the body for so long. The pounding in his head and heart. It all felt so detached, happening to someone else, and yet to him.

He was certainly still alive. 

It didn't make sense; he had always assumed he would be the first to die; perhaps he would make a mistake on a job; end up just another corpse in a Dunwall alley, maybe he would die defending Daud against those who would harm him, it wouldn't have mattered really. The idea of dying in service had never bothered him. Never would he have imagined being the last man standing.

It didn't just not make sense it wasn't right, it wasn't supposed to be this way. Whatever he was it was a flash in the pan; Daud was something else entirely. A force of nature, unearthly, something entirely not human. The favored of some unknown beast. So how was he the last man standing. He slid to his knees with a thump, barely feeling the impact in his knees. There he sat staring down at his hands resting on his legs, unable to bear to look at the cold corpse on the bed in front of him any longer. 

Thomas tried his hardest to think, in the back of his mind he knew the state he was in was utterly pointless, what would Daud think of it. But, a hollow voice answered, Daud was dead. No longer around to bark orders that could break through the strongest melancholy. He shifted to move his back to the bed; leaning against it. Couldn't stand the site of it, couldn't bear to leave it. What was he supposed to do anyways. There was nothing to do anymore. 

His body felt so heavy, his eyelids started to drift down, and he lacked the will power to fight it for long. Sleep was very appealing, after all what else was there to do. 

When he awoke there was a fire in his veins. He was slumped over on the cold floor, shivering, but he barely felt it. His dreams had been strange and terrifying, dreams of great beasts beneath the waves that would rise and suddenly burst into flames, writhing in the void, only to sink back down to the cold depths once more, fire and ice running over him in turns. Terrible dreams they had been; yet he awoke not disturbed but filled with a conviction. He had to burn the body. 

**Author's Note:**

> So the lovely Umicorms comes to me with sad Dishonored headcanons and I did a thing. And then the thing grew.


End file.
